I began writing before I learned to read. I remember my mother reading fairy tales to me and my younger brother from picture books full of wolves and princes. I must have been three years old. As she read I found myself surreptitiously tracing the patterns of each of the letters that formed the words of the story with my index finger on my thigh as I realized for the first time that they represented the words my mother spoke. When she finished her story, bade us goodnight, and shut off the light, I would crawl from bed to find my crayons and coloring book to mimic the letters from the book.
Thus began a life-long obsession with getting the story right. I still write at night. Getting the story right continues to befuddle me. I am prone to self-doubt and often times I despair of ever writing even one true sentence. Yet I persevere. Over the years I have written millions of words all aimed at the seemingly impossible goal of creating the perfect story. I have finally decided it is not the perfection that I am shooting for so much as it is the effort it takes to bring into being that which causes me so much consternation.
